


Pegasus

by Cuda (Scylla)



Category: Supernatural, Torchwood
Genre: Far Future, M/M, Mind Control, Non-Sexual Slavery, SuperWood, Superwho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 09:11:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8483677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scylla/pseuds/Cuda
Summary: Even thousands of years in the future, Torchwood missions are still pretty much the same: find the dangerous artifact and get it out of human hands. When you're Captain Jack Harkness, sometimes that artifact is someone you know. Someone you love.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [janto321 (FaceofMer)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/gifts).



> This was originally a response to a Tumblr ask prompt, for Jack and Castiel to reunite at an unexpected dance hall. I... went to a weird place with it. My original post is [here](http://jazzforthecaptain.tumblr.com/post/152798295743/jack-and-cas-and-an-unexpected-dancehall).

The whole place was rich and lavish; like a Fifties’ big-budget movie set, or a kinkster’s temple fantasy. A show of wealth and power, Jack thought, with no mitigating taste. He worked the room like a shark, charming and impersonal. The artifact was here, just as he’d been told it would. All of Jack’s sensors were off the charts. He felt it on his skin, tingling away with a familiarity that galled and goaded him.

He smiled, swallowing the bile of rage with every sip of amber wine, and found nothing but jewelry of varying value, and searching, inebriated hands. The band played on, the guests danced and drank. Jack lurked in their midst, alone with his frustration.

A gong sounded at the end of the great hall. The drummers pushed their pace; the dancers followed. Jack considered joining them. It would be effortless to catch a partner, to swirl away on the overflowing tide. Instead, Jack eased through the crowd, towards the center of the room.

When he reached it, Jack knew what he’d been looking for.

The host of this festival stood on a raised platform, a glass bowl of wine raised to his lips. He was young and handsome, as he should be, clad in an affair of white silk and silver jewelry that named him the nubile priest of this shrine to decadence.

In his other hand was a silver chain. Jack’s eyes followed the chain to its destination: a silver collar, thick and heavy, around the throat of his companion. The chained man was nude, save for that collar, a few strategic bits of silver jewelry, and tall white wings surging up from his back like the arches of a Gothic cathedral.

Jack knew him; knew every groove in the muscular shoulders. A hot wind swept over Jack’s skin, with a cold gust of fear and pain on its heels. It couldn’t be. It _couldn’t_ be. Jack knew the stories of angels after the fall of Earth; knew how the powerful sought them and bound them. He’d traveled with one for centuries, hadn’t he? He knew the risks. But so did Castiel.

And yet, here he was. Jack thought of tearing the mocking wings from his shoulders; of shoving the feathers into his captor’s beatific smile until his mouth bled. He shoved the dark thoughts aside, and swallowed as Castiel looked his way.

His eyes were blue, but changed. No iris to catch the light like deep water, but solid blue from corner to corner, as if his eyes had been replaced with cut sapphires. Castiel was a senseless work of art, all the danger and gorgeous violence of him locked away. Pegasus bridled by Bellerophon and paraded before the masses.

Jack wanted to slaughter things.

He pushed his hands in the pockets of his coat, closing around the sharp edges of the tiny chip. All he had to do was get _close_ enough…

His chance came as the music shifted. The band picked up the strains of another reel, and Castiel’s smiling Bellerophon succumbed to the call of the drums. He towed Castiel along with him by the neck, like a cruel child with a cocker spaniel.

He loved music, Jack remembered; Castiel loved to dance. Jack taught him in the cold tunnels of Torchwood Cardiff, noisy with the sea. They danced through bloody, filthy wars; in lonely dark ships; in prison cells; in the snow. He was clumsy here, the spark of real creativity in him snuffed as the silver collar did its damnable work.

But smug Bellerophon in his death-white hood had forgotten his guards. Jack might not be able to slip through their ring at the dais, but they hadn’t bothered to follow so closely now. Castiel stumbled and the false wings bobbed above the crowd. Bellerophon mocked him, too coddled and too stupid to realize the hurricane he’d caged. It was the work of a second to free that hurricane - to palm the chip Jack paid dearly for, and shove it in the open slot at the back of Castiel’s collar.

Castiel got to his feet, slowly, and the music scattered to a confused halt. His hand was on Jack’s shoulder; the other over his eyes.

“What is this?” cried Bellerophon, not yet realizing he’d been unhorsed.

Castiel looked up at Jack. The blind animal blue burned away from his eyes as the contacts melted, running down Castiel’s face in molten blue tears. He was there now, silver-bright and angry, Angel of the Lord, Soldier of God. The power of him washed over Jack’s skin to the soul he’d been so _convinced_ he didn’t have.

“Hiya, Hot Wings,” Jack breathed, “good to see you again.”

And Castiel kissed him, wild and hard, arms and wings - _real_ wings - wrapped around him to shield him from the hurricane blast.


End file.
